


The Backup Arsonist

by cleverqueen



Series: Coldwave Week 2017 [5]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: 1999, Hurt/Comfort, Kronos memories, M/M, Making Up, arson as bonding activity, the time masters are jerks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 07:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12526140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleverqueen/pseuds/cleverqueen
Summary: Day 5: Hurt/ComfortFinally, Mick’s skills as an arsonist come in handy. Too bad he’s got a terrible flu and can’t enjoy it. At least Len can ride to his rescue, right? After all, Len’s placed charges and lit fuses before. It can’t be that hard. When Saturn—Kronos’ heretofore unmentioned rival—arrives on scene though, things gets a little more complicated. (Until they aren’t.)





	The Backup Arsonist

**Author's Note:**

> My SO helped plot this one (just like Day 3: Domestic). “I don’t write hurt/comfort,” I said. “I don’t know what to do,” I said. And then when we were stuck together painting our basement staircase, I made my SO look up h/c on TV Tropes until we hashed something out together. Such a good sport, my darling (who doesn’t watch this show and doesn’t read fanfic anyway).

“If you’re going to run tonight’s regularly scheduled arson, you can’t be hacking and sneezing all over the place.” Len shoved a bottle of NyQuil into his partner’s hands, maroon bottle going almost pale red under the illumination from a single streetlight. “Here.”

Over their comms, a version of “1999” with pounding bass accompanied Sara’s wry amusement. “Awww, so long as the place is in flames by the time Ray, Kendra, and I lose track of our party man, it doesn’t matter how long it takes.”

Now that they knew the Pilgrim was coming, Rip had a plan to hide their younger selves. But it would only work if they could avoid the Time Masters’ all-seeing eyes. Thankfully, Rip knew of a gadget that could make them invisible. Less thankfully, it would only work until the turn of the millennium.

Which millennium? Len had hoped for the far future. Kendra had suggested the birth of Christ. But no, here he was, listening to Prince and living the Y2K threat all over again.

The Waverider had landed in Palo Alto, CA. The year, 1999. 

The plan was thus: Len would steal the gadget while Mick made it look like the thing had melted with the rest of the house it was kept in. This would only fool any temporal investigators if they couldn’t be identified as the culprits... and if the owner stayed away until the widget could have plausibly been destroyed. Hence, the other Legends making a party crew to keep the mark distracted.

Ray, also via comms, said, “I plan to enjoy tonight. Last time around, I was stuck in my office watching for any computer failures.”

Jax and Stein had stayed with the ship, and Rip was who knew where, chasing a last-second lead on Savage when he should have been identifying the gadget Mick and Len had come for. That was fine. Len didn’t need him anyway. He and Mick had always worked better alone together, and Len hoped tonight’s job would remind them of that. They had to find their equilibrium again, otherwise what kind of partners could they be? He _refused_ to believe he’d lost Mick to this Legendary crusade.

“I can burn a house down without NyQuil, Snart.” Mick’s ruffled feathers only ruffled more when he sneezed hard enough that he pitched forward. 

Len reached out to catch him—partners, even if they were a bit out of synch right now—and fell with him. He knew he’d overbalanced the moment his feet rolled too far onto the toes. Together, they plunged down and down, further than the beautifully manicured grass of the Silicon Valley millionaire’s home. Further than a dip in a walking path might suggest. 

Len’s arms windmilled. Mick hacked a loogie. They splashed down in a giant puddle.

No, not a puddle. 

“A moat?” Len asked, incredulous and treading water. “What kind of guy has a moat?”

“Especially in a drought state,” Mick nodded. “Good thing this is the La Niña year.” Just like him to remember which states had drought warnings and when. The better to light their landscapes on fire, of course.

No one’s voices drove in their ears to mock their stumbling slapstick comedy, which only meant, “Comms are out.” Time Master tech could be foiled with a bit of water. So unimpressive.

“We can still do the job,” Mick said. Then he sneezed three times, hard enough that he almost dipped under the surface.

Len got an arm around his partner’s shoulders and side-stroked them to the interior side of the moat. “Course we can,” said Len when they made landfall. “First, take your NyQuil.”

Len patted down his pockets for the rest of his shoplifted goods while Mick drank the medicine straight from the container. Okay, Len still had the nail polish remover, but the tissues were soggy, and the Zima bottle was at the bottom of the moat by now.

“Oooh, the old red cherry. I missed this flavor.”

“Always happy to provide, Mick,” said Len, and it was true. He wasn’t the best at _spoken_ affection, but he’d looked out for his sister and for Mick nearly his whole life. To the best of his ability, he brought them the things they wanted and needed, the luxuries they thought they could never have. Whether it was Lisa’s skating lessons or Mick’s favorite discontinued NyQuil flavor, Len would get it if he could.

Mick drained the bottle, not bothered by things like dosage or alcohol content. “Give it a sec to kick in,” he said.

Len shrugged and tossed the wet tissue packet on the ground. He could find others inside the house, he hoped. He pulled the cold gun from its holster and froze the moat... to check that his weapon was still functioning, of course. Not because the moat had annoyed him, nor because this gave him an excuse to say, “Oops. Would you melt that? I’d hate for the Time Masters to notice we’d been here.”

Mick grinned a little too widely, like the NyQuil was making him loopy. With an overhead flourish that almost caught a ferny tree alight, he got his flamethrower pointed in the right direction. A long burst, waved up and down the space in front of them, set the moat to rippling liquid again.

The heat gun flicked off, and Mick stumbled backwards. “Whoa,” he said, catching himself before Len could help. 

_That_ wasn’t usually a component of Mick’s flu symptoms. And when it was, he was the kind of guy who lay in bed and whined about the world spinning until Len fluffed his pillows or brought him consommé. “You okay?” he asked. He held his breath for a moment, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Mick growled and stumbled again on an invisible rock. He huffed and plopped onto the ground. His wet clothes squelched. “Maybe not,” he said. “Blondie out-drunk me back in the Wild West. Didn’t think that’d extend to cherry NyQuil.”

Len’s breath flowed out of him. Of _course_ Mick couldn’t pound NyQuil the way he used to. Not since the Time Masters got hold of him. Len’s fists clenched in his pockets—angry at the Time Masters, angry at himself for leaving Mick to their mercies, angry at Mick for saying they were good but then preferring to drink with Sara instead of him. “It’s fine. I can set the house fire.”

Mick raised his eyebrows in an unimpressed manner. It was a good look for him. It mocked Len’s aptitude with fire—which, yes, compared to Mick’s was negligible—and it recalled that time in 2003 when Len attempted a spot of arson in hopes of confusing the Santinis about which partner was on which side of town. (Spoiler: it hadn’t worked.) That was _Mick_ looking at him, not Kronos nor Mick-Lite. 

Len smirked. “I’ve seen you do it enough.”

Mick nodded, and Len could’ve danced. They were getting their groove back. Mick was saying some things about oxygen reactants and “plenty of fuel inside” and “see what you’ve got to work with.” Len didn’t really hear it. He knew he should’ve listened, but he preferred to watch Mick’s face, open and willing to entertain the possibility of _really_ working with Len again. The late 90s had been good to them the first time, and it looked like they’d be good in reruns too.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Anything you want me to bring you?”

Mick grinned. Home invasions as shopping trips tended to end in interesting gifts. “Whatever catches your eye.” 

_He trusts me!_ Len’s hands shook a bit from the excessive fluttering of his heart, and he had to breathe deeply three times before he approached the side door with his tools out.

The door lock didn’t pose any sort of challenge. If it had more than four tumblers, Len would have been surprised. He gave Mick one last little wave with his now-gloved hand and disappeared inside. 

He emerged in a huge kitchen with stainless steel appliances, a double oven, and a large center range/island under a massive hood. Len catalogued it all... and still had no idea what to use for burning the place down. Sure, he was Mick’s partner and had witnessed all sorts of blazes over the years, but he was better at making sure arson _didn’t_ happen. 

For decades, he’d hired professional chimney sweeps to visit their apartment every year. He’d checked that stove burners were always in the Off position. Now, looking at this place with different eyes, he knew kitchens could be dangerous, but not how best to set off a controlled burn.

Chemicals! He crossed to the sink and opened the cabinet underneath. _Perfect._ Everyone kept cleaning supplies under the sink, even dot-com millionaires. _We’re bursting this bubble a little early._ He regarded the neat rows of bottles and cans. Yes, he _could_ make a serious bomb with this stuff, but that was no good. It was too flashy for their purposes.

Len chose a spray bottle of Windex. Once standing again, he emptied the cleaner into the sink and refilled it with the nail polish remover from his pockets. Acetone had a flashpoint lower than room temperature, so it should be right for his needs.

He hoped so, anyway. If Mick were here, he’d confirm it, but it seemed like the right thing to do. To test out his new aerosolizing rig, he puffed a few squirts into the kitchen air. Smelled like acetone, all right. 

Windex bottle in hand, he crept along the fluffy carpet until he reached the millionaire’s office. Ah, the good old days of carpeting that muffled a thief’s footsteps. So much friendlier than the back-in-fashion hardwoods of 2016.

Len swiped a box of tissues from the giant mahogany desk in the center of the room, then got to work on the safe boringly hidden behind a forged Renoir. _Wonder if the owner knows it’s a forgery?_ It wasn’t worth stealing to save from the upcoming fire. 

With a pop, the safe door swung open, and Len took everything inside. While this included something that was probably The Gadget, it also included $10,000 cash in twenties and an engagement ring with a diamond he could name three contemporary fences for.

Len gave the office a last look before spritzing acetone throughout. _All right. Back to the kitchen. That’s where the fire should start._

Len checked that the range hood was turned off. He opened and reclosed all the windows to ensure they were fully sealed. _Now or never._ Windex bottle in hand, he spritzed the kitchen, amusing himself by pulling the nozzle to the tempo of Prodigy’s “Firestarter.” Even his arson could be 90s-themed.

Room as well-doused as it was going to be, Len contemplated the stovetop. The electric stove wasn’t going to get acetone going. He should have thought of that in advance. Maybe he could find some storm candles around here so the forensics team would see the wax and draw conclusions. But why would someone leave a candle burning when the house was empty?

The front door slammed, and Len’s heart jumped. _No one is supposed to be home yet. With the comms out, anything could be happening._ He swallowed down his panic. It wasn’t helping. _I’m a professional. This isn’t the end of the world._ Len took a deep, acetone-scented breath, and wedged himself into the pantry next to the refrigerator.

Peeking through when the newcomer stomped into the kitchen, Len’s shoulders collapsed on a silent sigh of relief. It certainly wasn’t the owner. In fact, based on the ridiculous outfit, Len would bet the stolen cash in his pockets that the new guy was a time traveler too.

The man in at the kitchen island wore a red cloak, had wrapped bandages from his ankles to his calves, and sported a sickle that glowed with unearthly power strapped to his back. 

_Hmmmm. I’d better check in with Mick before I set this place off._

Len snuck back outside with the cash and the gadget in his pockets, tissues and a bag of Doritos 3D in his gloved hands. Mick sat on the ground where he’d been left, coughing into his elbow and strangling the sounds as best he could.

“Heads up,” Len whispered. He tossed the tissue box onto Mick’s lap and hunkered down on the ground next to his partner. 

“Why’s the house still standing?” Mick asked. His tone was more accusatory than Len would have liked.

“We have an uninvited guest.” Len popped the Doritos bag and offered a chip, shrugging when Mick turned it down. _He must be sick if he’s avoiding snacks._

Len described the house crasher, and Mick immediately knew who it was. “Saturn,” Mick growled, which only set off another round of coughing. 

Len _knew_ it was a time traveler. He _knew it!_

“I _hate_ that guy.” Mick punctuated this statement with a jabbing finger, then he swayed backwards, done in by the NyQuil.

Len caught his partner and righted him, unsure if Mick would let him hold on a few seconds longer. Unsure whether Mick trusted Len to watch his back when faced with proof of their time apart. “Oh really?” he drawled.

“None of your business,” Mick said. He tore open the tissue box, letting it keep him from looking at Len, from continuing the conversation.

Len felt disappointment and worry rising in his throat. _I won’t give up on us, Mick._ “C’mon,” he cajoled. “You’re my business.”

Mick blew his nose loudly and tossed the crumpled tissue on the ground. “Hasn’t been that way for a long time.”

“Didn’t we _just_ hash that out?” Len stripped off a glove and stuffed Mick’s discarded tissue into a pocket. Wouldn’t do to leave DNA evidence at the scene.

Mick huffed. “We can work together now, but I don’t know if we’re really friends.”

Len squeezed his eyes shut. In the dark, maybe Mick couldn’t see how much those words affected him. His voice was a bit strangled, but mostly even when he asked, “What if I _want_ to be friends?”

Mick threw an expansive arm around Len’s shoulders at that. It didn’t feel completely friendly. “Let me tell you all about this jerk,” Mick said, NyQuil-breath filling Len’s senses. “Maybe you’d rather be friends with him. He’s better than I am, you know. The Time Masters thought so.” 

Len relaxed into the embrace and subtly steadied his listing partner. “I don’t need anybody but you,” he said. And he meant it. 

“Hmph.” Mick slumped back against nothing, and it took all Len’s abdominal muscles to keep them vaguely upright. “When I was with the Time Masters,” Mick began.

Len sipped a breath of air and didn’t let it sound like a gasp. Were they finally going to talk about the time they’d been separated? _And all it took was a fever and a bottle of NyQuil_. Len eased Mick backwards until he lay on the ground, looking up at the stars.

“They used to pit us against each other. Sometimes. We’d go on the same jobs, and run into each other there. Or we’d take aptitude tests and have our scores compared.”

Len put a hand to Mick’s forehead as he talked, checking the fever level, but it seemed like the NyQuil was working on that end. 

Mick grabbed the hand and tugged Len to sprawl on his chest. They weren’t making eye contact, couldn’t in this position, but it was closer than they’d been since 2046. “Saturn was always just a _little_ bit better. That was fine when he got the newer tech, the better assignments. But sometimes...” Mick was stuck in the past—or the future—and a hush fell over the moat while he let himself talk about the experience. _For the first time maybe?_

Mick’s grip tightened until Len’s bones creaked, and Len stayed completely still, letting his body heat be a comfort. He was silent, listening, receptive. He let Mick raise bruises on his arms without hint of a whimper. His partner would understand what that meant. 

“Sometimes, depending on why Saturn did better, they’d send me through induction again. Just a touch up. But it still hurt. After a while, all I knew was the pain. Didn’t know how long I’d been there. Didn’t know who I was.”

Mick clutched at Len, and Len clutched him back. They were grounded in each other. The pain from their grasping hands kept them in the now; it didn’t come from the Time Masters. 

“For a while,” Mick rasped—from coughing, from emotion?—out, “I thought _you_ might be Saturn. Because I always, always knew who you were. And sometimes I knew who Saturn was too.” 

Len choked on a whimper. He’d never been good at apologies, but Mick deserved to know that he wasn’t alone. That Len was here for him and that they were partners. Forever. 

Mick said, “I _hate_ that guy.”

Len said, “We’ll mess with him while we’re here.”

Mick chuckled, breaking off to hack phlegm onto the ground. “Nah. I just got back on this team. We need to concentrate on the controlled burn.” He pushed Len off his chest.

Len rolled to his feet and extended a hand to pull Mick up too. “Fine. Let’s break up this heart-to-heart and finish the job.”

Mick lumbered to standing and slung an arm across Len’s shoulders. “Lead on, boss.”

Len grinned, but made sure to complain. “Gonna make me schlep you through the whole house? You’ve gained some weight partner.”

Mick fell even more heavily onto Len in mocking response. 

Len expected _that._ He didn’t expect the hands tucking under his shirt hem and getting fresh. _Is he feeling me up on purpose? Or is he just drunk?_ “I didn’t think we were friends,” Len said cautiously. He held his breath waiting for the reply.

“We’re clearly friends.” Mick pinched the skin of Len’s stomach, forcing him to let air go in an explosive huff. “You even know what happened to me while I was gone. Besides....” Mick’s voice went sly, “If we’re partners and friends, I am so getting laid tonight.”

Len shook with laughter. _Yeah, that’s intentional feeling up._ Funny how looking out for Mick while he was sick meant more than beating each other up. He really had to remember that. “If you don’t have NyQuil dick,” he said.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Len leaned his partner against the kitchen island, wondering where Saturn had gotten off to. “You stay there.” The Windex bottle of nail polish remover made a reappearance as Len sprayed the kitchen again.

Mick went from half-lidden languor to wide-eyed mirth. He laughed, too loud and too drunk for stealth. “What the heck, Lenny?”

Len gave him a flat look, making it clear that he didn’t appreciate being mocked. Mick was still laughing while Len sorted through the recycling bin and found a pizza box to place on top of the electric stovetop. Len turned on the heat and dusted his hands against one another. “There,” he said. “Now, let’s get out of here and talk more about your NyQuil dick.”

Mick sniffled in response. Whether that was from snot or from laughter, Len wasn’t sure, but he rooted around behind a potted plant for the kitchen tissue box he’d seen earlier just in case. 

At that moment, Saturn sauntered into the kitchen. “You!” he yelled, pointing at Mick.

“You!” Mick yelled in response, pointing back with a hand that clenched a white tissue.

“Okay,” Len said in a calm, quieter voice, “we’ll go our way, and you’ll go yours.”

“Oh, how the mighty Kronos has fallen!” crowed Saturn, ignoring Len.

Mick’s face pinched shut. He was clearly unhappy about this.... or just holding in some sneezes. “Really?” Mick said, eyes watering. “ _That’s_ your lame dialogue?”

Len dragged his partner back to the side door, waving to Mick’s nemesis as they went. He really didn’t want to be in that room when it caught fire, or if someone decided to move from villainous moustache-twirling to actual violence.

Again, Len froze the moat. This time, they glided across it before Mick melted the waters. (“Hope they don’t keep any fish in there.”) They were three-quarters of the way to the car Len had stolen earlier that evening, and the house still wasn’t in flames. 

“Other than your weird kitchen dance,” Mick said, “what did you do about the arson?”

“That _is_ what I did.”

Mick laughed, coughed, and sighed. “We have to go back,” he said. “If it hasn’t lit up already, it’s never going to.”

At which point, the house exploded just to prove him wrong. Debris rained from the sky. Car alarms across the neighborhood wailed their unhappiness. A cheery fireball lit the community.

“Pretty,” said Mick.

“Damn,” said Len. “That’s... not inconspicuous.” Still, it was too late to fix it now. Len ushered Mick into the car’s passenger seat and adjusted the backrest’s tilt, the vents’ airflow, and Mick’s headrest.

“Just drive, Snart.”

_Ugh._ “Seatbelt.” 

And off they went, back to the meetup point.

Back at the Waverider, no one was happy. Ray had been stuck listening to people’s fears about Y2K. Kendra ended up making coffee drinks at the party because the catering staff had canceled. Rip hadn’t found Savage. And Sara had failed to distract the millionaire when news broke about the exploding house. (Jax and Stein were fielding everyone else’s grouchiness.)

“What were you thinking?” Sara demanded of Len and Mick the moment they arrived, Len staggering a bit under Mick’s amorous and sickly weight.

“Relax, Blondie,” Mick said. His voice was garbled with nasal drip, and everyone drew back from him in fearful horror of contagion. “No one will know it was us.”

Len twirled the gadget in his free hand. “And no one will find us to ask.”

Stein was more nervous about Mick’s condition than the success of their mission. “The Waverider is an enclosed environment! Come along, Jefferson.”

Rip grabbed at air as if he could hold the two halves of Firestorm on the bridge. “Where are you going?”

“We’re going to find a hotel and wait out Mr. Rory’s incubation period,” Stein said.

That punched a chuckle out of Ray. “Good luck finding a hotel tonight.”

Sara, also across the room from Mick now, asked, “Aren’t you worried about catching it, Leonard?”

Len shrugged. “We never get the same things.”

“Except that one time—”

Len interrupted before Mick could say more. “Yes, yes, the one time. Which we don’t speak of. If it happens again, we’ll get through it together.”

Mick laid his head on Len’s shoulder. Even after all that NyQuil, his skin was too dry and too hot. Like tinder. “You and me,” he said.

Len swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Aww,” Kendra cooed. Her coffee stained hands clasped together over her heart. “That’s so sweet.”

Sara smirked and echoed, “Urk, that’s so sweet I want to vomit.” She was clearly teasing, so Len didn’t take it personally.

Rip, now wearing gloves to avoid contamination, activated the gadget. “After a short break”—he glared at Mick and Stein both—“we will commence collection of your younger selves, pre-2000.”

They’d be safe, and all thanks to the anonymously-stolen thingamajig. All in all, a good night’s work.

***

The next morning, Mick gasped awake around snot in his throat. Len changed his cold compress, gave him some DayQuil, and helped compose a thank you letter to Saturn.

_To Saturn,_ it began. 

Len had wanted to go with a derisive _Dearest Saturn_ and Mick had wanted _Fucking fuckstick._ It was a compromise.

_To Saturn,_

_Thank you for blowing up the mansion last night (Dec 31, 1999). I’d never have completed my mission without your help._

_All my gratitude,_

_Kronos_

“Maybe the Time Bastards will take away his favorite helmet for this,” Mick said, full of glee and sinus drainage.

“Maybe.” Len stretched out on the bed beside his partner. _Ah, vengeance is sweet._ Almost as sweet as the kisses Len planned to bestow when Mick was healthy and interested in kissing again.

**Author's Note:**

> Awesome rejected titles for this story include “Walgreens Theft Prevention Team” and “In NyQuil Veritas.” Maybe someday I can use those.
> 
> Tracking - When I decided to do Coldwave Week, it was already two weeks too late, and I hadn’t given any thought to the stories that would fit the themes. I decided I’d try to write a short story a day. (My SO immediately laughed. Which was totally fair really.) So far:  
> * Finished first story draft on 8/27 (from 8/24). So, not making the whole week thing.  
> * Finished second story draft on 9/8. Yeah.... the SO was definitely right.  
> * Finished third story draft on 9/8. If only I could keep up this pace.  
> * Finished fourth story draft on 9/9.  
> * Finished fifth story draft on 9/20.


End file.
